Emilie the Peacemaker by Mrs. Thomas Geldart

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left alone--alone upon the quiet beach. The sun had set, for it waslate; the tide was ebbing, and now left the girls a beautiful smoothpath of sand for some little distance, on which the sound of their lightsteps was scarcely heard, as they rapidly walked towards home.

"Who would think, Edith, that our six weeks' holiday would be at an endto-morrow?" said Emilie.

"I don't know, Emilie, I feel it much longer."

"_Do_ you? then you have not been so happy as I hoped to have made you,dear; I have been a great deal occupied with other things, but it couldscarcely be helped."

"No, Emilie, I have not been happy a great part of the holidays, but Iam happy now; happier at least, and it was no fault of yours at anytime. I know now why I was so discontented with my condition, and why Ithought I had more to try me than anybody else. I feel that I was infault; that I _am_ in fault, I should say; but, oh Emilie, I am trying,trying hard, to--" and here, Edith, softened by the remembrance thatsoon she and her friend must part, burst into tears.

"And you have succeeded, succeeded nobly, Edith, my darling. I havewatched you, and but that I feared to interfere, I would have noticedyour victories to you. I may do so now."

"My _victories_, Emilie! Are you making fun of me? I feel to have beenso very irritable of late.--My _victories!_"

"Just because, dear, you take notice of your irritability as you did notuse to do, and because you have constantly before your eyes that greatpattern in whom was no sin."

"Emilie, I will tell you something--your patience, your example, hasdone me a great deal of good, I hope; but there is one thing in yourkind of advice, which does me more good than all. You have talked moreof the love of God than of any other part of his character, and thewords which first struck me very much, when I first began to wish that Iwere different, were those you told me one Sunday evening, some timeago. 'Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, andgave his Son a ransom for sinners.' There seemed such a contrast betweenmy conduct to God, and His to me; and then it has made me, I hope, alittle more, (a _very_ little, you know,) I am not boasting, Emilie, amI? it has made me a _little_ more willing to look over things which usedto vex me so. What are Fred's worst doings to me, compared with my_best_ to God?"

Thus they talked, and now, indeed, did the friends love one another; andheartily did each, by her bedside that night, thank God for his gospel,which tells of his love to man, the greatest illustration truly of thelaw of kindness.

CHAPTER NINTH.

FRED A PEACEMAKER.

"Talk not of wasted affection, affection never is wasted.... its watersreturning back to their spring, like the rain shall fill them full ofrefreshment"--_H. W. Longfellow_.

"Well Fred," said Emilie at the supper table, from which Mr. Parker wasabsent, "I go away to-morrow and we part better friends than we met, Ithink, don't we?"

"Oh yes, Miss Schomberg, we are all better friends, and it is all yourdoing."

"My doing, oh no! Fred, that _is_ flattery. I have not made Edith sogentle and so good as she has of late been to you. _I_ never advised herto give up that little room to you nor to send poor Muff away."

"_Didn't_ you? well, now I always thought you did; I always kid that toyou, and so I don't believe I have half thanked Edith as I ought."

"Indeed you might have done."

"Well, I hope I shall not get quarrelsome at school again, but I wish Iwas in a large school. I fancy I should be much happier. Only being usfive at Mr. Barton's, we are so thrown together, somehow we can't helpfalling out and interfering with each other sometimes. Now there isyoung White, I never can agree with him, it is _impossible_."

"Dear me!" said Emilie, without contradicting him, "why?"

"He treats me so very ill; not openly and above-board, as we say, but insuch a nasty sneaking way, he is always trying to injure me. He knowssometimes I fall asleep after I am called. Well, he dresses so quietly,(I sleep in his room, I wish I didn't,) he steals down stairs and thenlaughs with such triumph when I come down late and get a lecture or afine for it. If I am very busy over an exercise out of school hours, hecomes and talks to me, or reads some entertaining book close to my ears,aloud to one of the boys, to hinder my doing it properly, but that isnot half his nasty ways. Could _you love_ such a boy Miss Schomberg?"

"Well, I would try to make him more loveable, Fred, and then I mightperhaps love him," said Emilie.

"No, I won't laugh, I am going to be serious. You will allow me topreach a short sermon to-night, the last for some time, you know, andmine shall be but a text, or a very little more, and then 'good night.'Will you try to love that boy for a few weeks? _really_ try, and see ifhe does not turn out better than you expect. If he do not, I willpromise you that you will be the better for it. Love is never wasted,but remember, Fred, it is wicked and sad to hate one another, and itcomes to be a serious matter, for 'If any man love not his brother whomhe hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen.' Good night."

"Good night, Miss Schomberg, you have taught me to like you," and oh,how I did dislike you once! thought Fred, but he did not say so.

Miss Webster's foot got well at last, but it was a long time about it.The lodgers went away at the end of the six weeks, and aunt Agnes andEmilie were quietly settled in their little apartments again. The pianowas a little out of tune, but Emilie expected as much, and now after hersix weeks' holiday, so called, she prepared to begin her life of dailyteaching. Her kindness to Miss Webster was for some time to allappearance thrown away, but no, that cannot be--kindness and love cannever be wasted. They bless him that gives, if not him that takes theoffering. By and bye, however, a few indications of the working of thegood system appeared. Miss Webster would offer to come and sit and chatwith aunt Agnes when Emilie was teaching or walking; and aunt Agnes inreturn taught Miss Webster knitting stitches and crochet work. MissWebster would clean Emilie's straw bonnet, and when asked for the bill,she would say that it came to nothing; and would now and then send up alittle offering of fruit or fish, when she thought her lodgers' tablewas not well supplied. Little acts in themselves, but great when weconsider that they were those of an habitually cold and selfish person.She did not express love; but she showed the softening influence ofaffection, and Emilie at least understood and appreciated it.

Fred had perhaps the hardest work of all the actors on this littlestage; he thought so at least. Joe White was an unamiable and, as Fredexpressed it, a sneaking boy. He had never been accustomed to have hissocial affections cultivated in childhood, and consequently, he grew upinto boyhood without any heart as it is called. Good Mr. Barton wasquite puzzled with him. He said there was no making any impression onhim, and that Mr. Barton could make none was very evident. Who shallmake it? Even Fred; for he is going to try Emilie's receipt for the cureof the complaint under which Master White laboured, a kind of moralossification of the heart. Will he succeed? We shall see.

Perhaps, had Joe White at this time fallen down and broken his leg, ordemanded in any way a _great_ sacrifice of personal comfort from hisschool-fellow, he would have found it easier to return good for his evil,than in the daily, hourly, calls for the exercise of forgiveness andforbearance which occurred at school. Oh, how many will do _great_things in the way of gifts or service, who will not do the little actsof kindness and self denial which common life demands. Many a person hasbuilt hospitals or alms houses, and has been ready to give great giftsto the poor and hungry, who has been found at home miserably deficientin domestic virtues. Dear children, cultivate these. You have, very fewof you, opportunities for great sacrifices. They occur rarely in reallife, and it would be well if the relations of fictitious life aboundedless in them; but you may, all of you, find occasions to speak a gentleword, to give a kind smile, to resign a pursuit which annoys or vexesanother, to cure a bad habit, to give up a desired pleasure. You may,all of you, practice the injunction, to live not unto yourselves. Fred,I say, found it a hard matter to carry out Emilie's plan towards JoeWhite, who came back from home more evilly disposed than ever, and allthe boys agreed he was a perfect nuisance.

"I would try and make him loveable." Those words of Emilie's oftenrecurred to Fred as he heard the boys say how they disliked Joe Whiteworse and worse. So Fred tried first by going up to him very gravely oneday, and saying how they all disliked him, and how he hoped he wouldmend; but that did not do at all. Fred found the twine of his kite allentangled next day, and John said he saw White playing with it soonafter Fred had spoken to him.

"I'd go and serve him out; just you go and tangle his twine, and see howhe likes it," said John.

"I will--but no! I won't," Bald Fred, "that's evil for evil, and that iswhat I am not going to do. I mean to leave that plan off."

An opportunity soon occurred for returning good for evil Miss Barton hada donkey, and this donkey, whose proper abode was the paddock, sometimesbroke bounds, and regaled itself on the plants in the young gentlemen'sgardens, in a manner highly provoking to those who had any taste forflowers. If Joe White had any love for anything, it was for flowers.Now, there is something so pure and beautiful in flowers; called by thatgood philanthropist Wilberforce, the "smiles of God," that I think theremust be a little tender spot in that heart which truly loves flowers.Joe tended his as a parent would a child. His garden was his child, andcertainly it did his culture credit. Fred liked a garden too, and theseboys' gardens were side by side. They were the admiration of the wholefamily, so neatly raked, so free from stones or weeds, so gay withflowers of the best kind. They were rival gardens, but undoubtedlyWhite's was in the best order. John and Fred always went home on aSaturday, as Mr. Barton's house was not far from L----. Joe was aboarder entirely, his home was at a distance, and to this Fred Parkerascribed the superiority of his garden. He was able to devote the wholeof Saturday, which was a holiday, to its culture. Well, the donkey ofwhich I spoke, one day took a special fancy to the boys' gardens; and itso happened, that he was beginning to apply himself to nibble the topsof Joe's dahlias, which were just budding. Joe was that day confined tothe house with a severe cold, and little did he think as he lay in bed,sipping Mrs. Barton's gruel and tea, of the scenes that were beingenacted in his own dear garden. Fred fortunately spied the donkey, andthough there had been lately a little emulation between them, who shouldgrow the finest dahlias, he at once carried out the principle ofreturning good for evil, drove the donkey off, even though his courselay over his own flower beds, and then set to work to repair the damagedone. A few minutes more, and all Joe's dahlias would have beensacrificed. Fred saved them, raked the border neatly, tied up theplants, and restored all to order again; and who can tell but those whothus act, the pleasure, the comfort of Fred's heart? Why, not the firstprize at the horticultural show for the first dahlia in the country,would have given him half the joy; and a still nobler sacrifice hemade--he did not tell of his good deeds. Now, Fred began to realise thepleasures of forbearance and kindness indeed.

There could not have been a better way of reaching young White's heartthan through his garden. Fred's was a fortunate commencement. He neverboasted of the act, but one of the boys told Mr. Barton, who did notfail to remind Joe of it at a suitable time, and that time was whenWhite presented his master with a splendid bouquet of dahlias for hissupper table, when he was going to have a party of friends. The boys,who were treated like members of the family, were invited to join thatparty, and then did Mr. Barton narrate the scene of the donkey'sinvasion, of which, however, the guests did not perceive the point; butthose for whom it was intended understood it all. At bed time thatnight, Joe White begged his school-fellow's pardon for entangling hiskite twine, and went to bed very humble and grateful, and with a littlelove and kindness dawning, which made his rest sweeter and his dreamshappier. Thus Fred began his lessons of love; it was thus he endeavouredto make Joe lovable, and congratulated himself on his first successfulattempt. He did not speak in the very words of the Poet, but hissentiments were the same, as he talked to John of his victory.

"There is a golden chord of sympathy, Fix'd in the harp of every human soul, Which by the breath of kindness when 'tis swept, Wakes angel-melodies in savage hearts; Inflicts sore chastisements for treasured wrongs, And melts away the ice of hate to streams of love; Nor aught but _kindness_ can that fine chord touch."

Joe Murray was quite right in telling Edith that a little of the leavenof kindness and love went a great way in a family. No man can live tohimself, that is to say, no man's acts can affect himself only. Had Fredset an example of revenge and retaliation, other boys would have nodoubt acted in like manner on the first occasion of irritation. Now theyall helped to reform Joe White, and did not return evil for evil, ashad been their custom. Fred was the oldest but one of the littlecommunity, and had always been looked up to as a clever boy, up to allkinds of spore and diversion. He was the leader of their plays andamusements, and but for the occasional outbreaks of his violent temperwould have been a great favourite. As it was, the boys liked him, andhis master was undoubtedly very fond of Fred Parker. He was an honesttruthful boy though impetuous and headstrong.

Permission was given the lads, who as we have said were six in number,to walk out one fine September afternoon without the guardianship oftheir master. They were to gather blackberries, highly esteemed by Mrs.Barton for preserves, and it was the great delight of the boys to supplyher every year with this fruit. Blackberrying is a very amusing thing tocountry children. It is less so perhaps in its consequences to thenurse, or sempstress, who has to repair the terrible rents whichmerciless brambles make, but of that children, boys especially, thinklittle or nothing. On they went, each provided with a basket and a longcrome stick, for the purpose of drawing distant clusters over ditchesor from some height within the reach of the gatherer. At first theyjumped and ran and sang in all the merriment of independence. The veryconsciousness of life, health, and freedom was sufficient enjoyment, andthere was no end to their fun and their frolics until they came to thespot where the blackberries grew in the greatest abundance. Then theybegan to gather and eat and fill their baskets in good earnest. The mostenergetic amongst them was Fred, and he had opportunities enough thisafternoon for practising kindness and self-denial, for White was in oneof his bad moods, and pushed before Fred whenever he saw a fine andeasily to be obtained cluster of fruit; and once, (Fred thoughtpurposely,) upset his basket, which stood upon the pathway, all in thedust. Still Fred bore all this very well, and set about the gatheringwith renewed ardour, though one or two of the party called out, "Give ithim, Parker; toss his out and see how he likes it." No, Fred had begunto taste the sweet fruits of kindness, he would not turn aside to pluckthe bitter fruits of revenge and passion. So he gave no heed to thematter, only leaving the coast clear for White whenever he could, andhelping a little boy whom White had pushed aside to fill his basket.

Without any particular adventures, and with only the usual number ofscratches and falls, and only the common depth of dye in lips andfingers, the boys sat down to rest beneath the shade of some fine trees,which skirted a beautiful wood.

"I say," said John Parker, "let us turn in here, we shall find shadeenough, and I had rather sit on the grass and moss than on this bank.Come along, we have only to climb the hedge."

"But that would be trespassing," said one conscientious boy, who went bythe name of Simon Pure, because he never would join in any sport hethought wrong, and used to recall the master's prohibitions ratheroftener to his forgetful companions than they liked.

"Trespassing! a fig for trespassing," said John Parker, clearing awayall impediments, and bestriding the narrow ditch, planted a foot firmlyon the opposite bank.

"You may get something not so sweet as a fig for trespassing, John,though," said his brother Fred, who came up at this moment.

"Man-traps and spring-guns are fictions my lad," said Philip Harcourt, aboy of much the same turn as John, not easily persuaded any way; "Nowfor it, over Parker; be quick, man," and over he jumped.

Then followed Harcourt, White, and another little boy, whose name wasArthur, leaving Fred and Simon Pure in the middle of the road. The woodwas, undoubtedly, a very delightful place, and more than one finepheasant rustled amongst the underwood, and the squirrels leaped frombough to bough, whilst the music of the birds was charming. Fred,himself, was tempted as he peeped over the gap, and stood irresolute.The plantation was far enough from the residence of the owner, nor wasit likely that they could do much mischief beyond frightening the game,and as it was not sitting time, Fred himself argued it could do no harm,but little Riches, the boy called Pure, who was a great admirer of Fred,especially since the affair of the Dahlias, begged him not to go; "Mr.Barton, you know, has such a great dislike to our trespassing," saidRiches, "and if we stay here resolutely they will be sure to come back."

"Don't preach to me," was the rather unexpected reply, for Fred was not_perfect_ yet, though he had gained a victory or two over his temper oflate.

"I didn't mean to preach, but I do wish the boys would come home, it isgrowing late; and with our heavy baskets we shall only just get in intime."

"Halloo!" shouted Fred, getting on the bank. "Come back, won't you, orwe shall be too late; come, John, you are the eldest, come along." Buthis call was drowned in the sound of their voices, which were echoingthrough the weeds, much to the annoyance, no doubt, of the statelypheasants who were not accustomed to human sounds like these. They werenot at any great distance, and Fred could just distinguish parts oftheir conversation.

John and Harcourt were urging White, a delicate boy, and no climber, tomount a high tree in the wood, to enjoy they said the glorious sea-view;but in reality to make themselves merry at his expense, being certainthat if he managed to scramble up he would have some difficulty ingetting down, and would get a terrible fright at least. White stood atthe bottom of the tree, looking at his companions as they rode on one ofthe higher branches of a fine spruce fir.

"Don't venture! White," shouted Fred as loudly as he could shout, "don'tattempt it! They only want to make game of you, and you'll never getdown if you manage to get up. Take my advice now, don't try."

"Mind your own business," and a large sod of earth was the reply. Thesod struck the boy on the face, and his nose bled profusely.

"There," said young Riches, "what a cowardly trick! Oh! I think Whitethe meanest spirited boy I ever saw. He wouldn't have flung that sod atyou if you had been within arm's length of him; well, I do dislike thatWhite."

"I'll give it to him," said Fred, as he vaulted over the fence, butimmediately words, which Emilie had once repeated to him when they weretalking about offensive and defensive warfare, came into his mind, andhe stopped short. Those words were:--"If any man smite thee on thyright cheek turn to him the other also," and Fred was in the road again.

"Well," said Riches, "we have done and said all we can, let us be goinghome, their disobeying orders is no excuse for us, so come alongParker--won't you? They have a watch, and their blackberries won't runaway, I suppose."

"Can't we manage between us, though, to carry some of them?" said Fred."This large basket is not nearly full, let us empty one of them into it.There, now we have only left them two. I've got White's load. I've halfa mind to set it down, but no I won't though. You will carry John's,Won't you, that's lighter, and between them they may carry the other."

They went on a few steps when they both turned to listen. "I thought,"said Fred, "I heard my name called. It could only be fancy, though. Yet,hush! There it is! quite plain," and so it was.

John called to him loudly to stop, and at that moment such a scream washeard echoing through the woods, as sent the wood pigeons flyingterrified about, and started the hares from their hiding places. "Stop,oh stop, Fred, White can't get down," said John, breathless, "and Ibelieve he will fall, if he hasn't already, he says he is giddy. Praycome back and see if you can't help him, you are such a famous climber."

Fred could not refuse, and in less than five minutes he was on the spot,but it was too late. The branch had given way, and the boy lay at thefoot of the tree senseless, to all appearance dead. There was no blood,no outward sign of injury, but--his face! Fred did not forget for manyyears afterwards, its dreadful, terrified, ghastly expression. What wasto be done? They were so horror-struck that for a few minutes they stoodin perfect silence, so powerfully were they convinced that the lad hadceased to breathe, that they remained solemn and still as in thepresence of death.

To all minds death has great solemnities; to the young, when it strikesone of their own age and number, especially. "Come," said Fred, turningto Riches, "come, we must not leave him here to die, poor fellow. Takeoff his neck-handkerchief, Harcourt, and run you, Riches, to the streamclose by, where we first sat down, and get some water. Get it in yourcap, man, you have nothing else to put it in. Quick! quick!"

"Joe! Joe!" said John, "only speak, only look, Joe, if you can, we areso frightened."--No answer.

"Joe!" said Fred, and he tried to raise him. No assistance and noresistance; Joe fell back passive on the arm of his friend, yes,friend--they were no longer enemies you know. Had Fred returned evil forevil, had he rushed on him as he first intended when he received the sodfrom White, he would not have felt as he now did. The boys, who, out ofmischief, to use the mildest word, tempted him to climb to a height,beyond that which even they themselves could have accomplished, were notto be envied in _their_ feelings. Poor fellows, and yet they only didwhat many a reckless, mischievous school boy has done and is doing everyday; they only meant to tease him a bit, to pay him off for being sospiteful all the way, and so cross to Fred when he spoke. But it was nouse trying to still the voice which spoke loudly within them, which toldthem that they had acted with heartless cruelty, and that their conducthad, perhaps, cost a fellow-creature his life.

"Will you wait with him whilst I run to L---- for papa?" said Fred.

"What alone?" they cried.

"Alone! why there are four of you, will be at least when Riches comesback."

"Oh no! no! do you stay Fred, you are the only one that knows what youare after."

"Well, which of you will go then? It is near two miles, and you mustrun, for his _life_--mind that." No one stirred, and Riches at thismoment coming up with the water, Fred told him in few words what hemeant to do, and bade him go and stand by the poor lad. That was allthat could be done, and "Riches don't be hard on them; their consciencesare telling them all you could tell them. Don't lecture them, I mean;you would not like it yourself."

Off ran Fred, and to his great joy, spying a cart, with one of farmerCrosse's men in it, he hailed it, told his tale, and thus they were atL---- in a very short space of time. Terrified indeed was Mrs. Parker atthe sight of her son driving furiously up in farmer Crosse'sspring-cart, and his black eye and swelled face did not tend to pacifyher on nearer inspection. The father, a little more used to be calledout in a hurry, and to prepare for emergencies, was not so alarmed, buthad self-possession enough to remember what would be needed, and tocollect various articles for the patient's use.

The journey to the wood was speedily accomplished, but the poor lads whowere keeping watch, often said afterwards that it seemed to them almosta lifetime, such was the crowd of fearful and wretched thoughts andforebodings, such the anxiety, and hopelessness of their situation.There in the silence of the wood lay their young companion, stretchedlifeless, and they were the cause. The least rustle amongst the leavesthey mistook for a movement of the sufferer; but he moved not. How didthey watch Mr. Parker's face as he knelt down and applied his fingers tothe boy's wrist first, and then to his heart! With what intense anxietydid they watch the preparations for applying remedies and restoratives!"Was he, was he dead, _quite_ dead?" they asked. No, not dead, but thedoctor shook his head seriously, and their exclamations of joy andrelief were soon checked.

Not to follow them through the process of restoring animation, we willsay that he was carefully removed to Mr. Barton's house, and tenderlywatched by his kind wife. He had been stunned by the fall, but this wasnot the extent of the mischief. It was found upon examination that thespine had received irreparable injury, and that if poor White lived,which was doubtful, it would be as a helpless cripple. Who can tell thereflections of those boys? Who can estimate the misery of hearts whichhad thus returned evil for evil? It was a sore lesson, but one which ofitself could yield no good fruit.

It was a great grief to Fred that his presence, in the excitable stateof the sufferer, seemed to do him harm. He would have liked to sit byhim, and share in the duties of his nursing, but whenever Fredapproached, White became restless and uneasy, and continually alluded,even in his delirium, to the sod he had thrown, and to other points ofhis ungrateful malicious conduct to his school-fellow. This feeling,however, in time wore away, and many an hour did Fred take from play togo and sit by poor Joe's couch.

He had no mother to come and watch beside that couch, no kind gentlesister, no loving father. He was an orphan, taken care of by an uncleand aunt, who had no experience in training children, and wereaccustomed to view young persons in the light of evils, which it wasunfortunately necessary to _bear_ until the _fault_ of youth should havepassed away. Will you not then cease to wonder that Joe seemed to haveso little heart? Affection needs to be cultivated; his uncle thoughtthat in sending him to school and giving him a good education, he wasdoing his duty by the boy. His aunt considered that if in the holidaysshe let him rove about as he pleased, saw to the repairs of his clothes,sent him back fitted out comfortably, with a little pocket money and alittle _advice_, she had done _her_ duty by the child. But poor Joe! Nokind mother ever stole to his bedside to whisper warnings and gentlereproof if the conduct of the day had been wrong; no knee ever bent toask for grace and blessing on that orphan boy; no sympathy was everexpressed in one of his joys or griefs; no voice encouraged him inself-denial; no heart rejoiced in his little victories over temper andpride. Now, instead of blaming and disliking, will you not pity and lovethe unlovable and neglected lad?

He had not been long under Mr. Barton's care, and after all, what coulda schoolmaster do in twelve months, to remedy the evils which had beengrowing up for twelve years? He did his best, but the result was verylittle, and perhaps the most useful lesson Joe ever had was that whichFred gave him about the Dahlias.

CHAPTER TENTH.

EDITH'S VISIT TO JOE.

Fred and Edith were sitting in the Canary room one Saturday afternoon,shortly after the event recorded in the last chapter; Edith listeningwith an earnest interest to the oft-repeated tale of the fall in thewood.

"How glad you must have felt, Fred, when you thought he was dead, thatyou had not returned his unkindness."

"Glad! Edith, I cannot tell you how glad; but glad is'nt the word,either. On my knees that night, and often since, I have thanked God whohelped me to check the temper that arose. Those words out of the Bibledid it: 'If any man smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the otheralso.' Emilie told me that text one day, and I said I did'nt think Icould ever do that, but I was helped somehow; but come, Edith, let usgo and see Emilie Schomberg, I have'nt seen her since all this happened,though you have. How beautifully you keep my cages Edith! I think youare very clever; the birds get on better than they did with me. Is thereany one you would like to give a bird to, dear? For I am sure you oughtto share the pleasures, you have plenty of the trouble of my canaries."

"Oh, I have pleasure enough, and their songs always seem like rejoicingsover our reconciliation that day ever so long ago; you remember, don'tyou, Fred? but I should like a bird _very_ much to give to MissSchomberg; she seems low-spirited, and says she is often very lonely. Abird would be nice company for her, shall we take her one?"

"It would be rather a troublesome gift without a cage, Edith, but I havemoney enough, I think, and I will buy a cage, and then she shall haveher bird."

"We will hang it up to greet her on Sunday morning, shall we?" Thus thebrother and sister set out, and it was a beautiful sight to theirmother, who dearly loved them, to see the two who once were soquarrelsome and disunited now walking together in _love_.

Emilie was not at home, and they stood uncertain which way to walk,when Fred said, "Edith, I want some one to teach poor Joe love; will yougo with me and see him? You taught me to love you, and I think Joe wouldbe happier if he could see some one he could take a fancy to. Papa saidhe might see one at a time now, and poor fellow, I do pity him so. Willyou go? It is a fine fresh afternoon, let us go to Mr. Barton's."

The October sky was clear and the air bracing, and side by side walkedFred and Edith on their errand of mercy to poor neglected Joe, theiryoung hearts a little saddened by the remembrance of his sufferings, "Isnot his aunt coming?" asked Edith.

"No! actually she is not," replied Fred. "She says in her letter shecould not stand the fatigue of the journey, and that her physiciansorder her to try the waters of Bath and Cheltenham. Unfeeling creature!"

Thus they chatted till they arrived at Mr. Barton's house. Mrs. Bartonreceived them very kindly. "Oh, Miss Parker, she said, my heart achesfor that poor lad upstairs, and yet with all this trial, and thewonderful providential escape he has had, would you believe it? hisheart seems very little affected. He is not softened that I can see. Itold him to day how thankful he ought to be that God did not cut him offin all his sins, and he answered that they who tempted him into dangerwould have the most to answer for."

Ah, Mrs. Barton, it is not the way to people's hearts usually to findfault and upbraid them. There was much truth in what you said to Joe,but truth sometimes irritates by the way and time in which it is spoken,and it seems in this case that the _kind_ of truth you told did notexactly suit the state of the boy's mind. Edith did not say this ofcourse to the good lady, whose intentions were excellent, but who wasrather too much disposed to be severe on young persona, and certainlyJoe had tried her in many ways.

"I will go and see whether Joe would like to see Edith may I, madam,asked Fred?" Permission was given.

"My sister is here, Joe, you have often heard me mention her, would youlike to see her?"

"Oh, I don't know, my back is so bad. Oh dear me, and your father tellsme I am to lie flat in this way, months. What am I to do all throughthe Christmas holidays too? Oh! dear, dear me. Well, yes, she may comeup."

With this not very gracious invitation little Edith stepped upstairs,and being of a very tender nature, no sooner did she see poor Joe'ssuffering state than she began to cry. They were tears of such genuinesympathy, such exquisite tenderness, that they touched Joe. He did notwithdraw the hand she held, and felt even sorry when she herself tookhers away. "How sorry I am for you!" said Edith, when she could speak,"but may I come and read to you sometimes, and wait upon you when thereis no one else? I think I could amuse you a little, and it might passthe time away. I only mean when you have no one better, you know."

Joe's permission was not very cordial, he was so afraid of girls'_flummery_, as he called it "She plays backgammon and chess, Joe, and Ican promise you she reads beautifully."

"Well, I will come on Monday," said Edith, gaily, "and send me away ifyou don't want me; but dear me, do you like this light on your eyes?I'll ask mamma for a piece of green baize to pin up. Good bye."

As she was going out of the room Joe called her back. "I have such afavour to ask of you, Miss Parker. Don't bring that preaching Germanlady here of whom I have heard Fred speak; I don't mind you, but Icannot bear so much preaching. Mrs. Barton and her together would crazeme." Edith promised, but she felt disappointed. She had hoped thatEmilie might have gained an entrance, and she knew that Emilie wouldhave found out the way to his heart, if she could once have got into hispresence; but she concealed her disappointment having made the requiredpromise, and ran after her brother.

"I don't like going where I am so plainly not wanted, Fred," said she ontheir way home, "Oh, what a sad thing poor White's temper is for himselfand every one about him."

"Yes Edith, but _we_ are not always sweet-tempered, and you mustremember that poor White has no mother and no father, no one in short tolove." Edith found at first that it required more judgment than shepossessed to make her visit to Joe White either pleasant or useful.Illness had increased his irritability, and so far from submittingpatiently to the confinement and restriction imposed, he was quitefuming with impatience to be allowed to sit up and amuse himself atleast.

How ingenious is affection in contriving alleviations! Here Joe sadlywanted some one whose wits were quickened by love. Mrs. Barton nursedhim admirably; he was kept very neat and nice, and his room always had aclean tidy appearance; but it lacked the little tokens of love whichoft-times turn the sick chamber into a kind of paradise. No flowers, nolittle contrivances for amusement, no delicate article of food to tempthis sickly appetite. Poor Joe! Edith soon saw this, and yet it needsexperience in illness to adapt one's self to sick nursing. Besides shewas afraid, she did not like to offer books and flowers, and thesevisits were quite dreaded by her.

"Will you not go and see Joe, Emilie?" asked Edith, one day of herfriend, as she was recounting the difficulties in her way. "You get atpeople's hearts much better than ever I could do."

"My dear child," said Emilie, "did not Joe say that he begged you neverwould bring the preaching German to see him? oh no, dear, I cannotforce my company on him. Besides you have not tried long enough,kindness does not work miracles; try a little longer Edith, and bepatient with Joe as God is with us. How often we turn away from Him whenHe offers to be reconciled to us. Think of that, dear."

"Fred is very patient and persevering; I often wonder, Miss Schomberg,that John, who really did cause the accident, seems to think less aboutJoe than Fred, who had not any thing to do with it."

"It is not at all astonishing, Edith. It requires that our actionsshould be brought to the light of God's Word to see them in their truecondition. An impenitent murderer thinks less of his crime than a truepenitent, who has been moral all his life, thinks of his great sin ofingratitude and ungodliness."

CHAPTER ELEVENTH.

JOE'S CHRISTMAS.

Christmas was at hand; Christmas with its holidays, its greetings, itsfestive meetings, its gifts, its bells, and its rejoicings. That seasonwhen mothers prepare for the return of their children from school, andare wont to listen amidst storms of wind and snow for the carriagewheels; when little brothers and sisters strain their eyes to catch thefirst glimpse of the dear ones' approach along the snowy track; when thefire blazes within, and lamps are lit up to welcome them home; and hopeand expectation and glad heart beatings are the lot of so many--of many,not of all. Christmas was come, but it brought no hope, no gladness, nomirth to poor White, either present or in prospect. The music and thebells of Christmas, the skating, the pony riding, the racing, the briskwalk, the home endearments were not for Joe--poor Joe. No mother longedfor his return, no brother or little sister pressed to the hall door toget the first look or the first word; no father welcomed Joe back to thehearth-warmth of home sweet home. Poor orphan boy!

Joe's uncle and aunt wrote him a kind letter, quite agreed in Mr.Parker's opinion that a journey into Lincolnshire was, in the state ofhis back and general health, out of the question, were fully satisfiedthat he was under the best care, both medical and magisterial, (they hadnever seen either doctor or master, and had only known of Mr. Bartonthrough an advertisement,) and sent him a handsome present of pocketmoney, with the information that they were going to the South of Francefor the winter. Joe bore the news of their departure very coolly, andcarelessly pocketed the money, knowing as he did that he had a handsomeproperty in his uncle's hands, and no one would have supposed from anyexhibition of feeling that he manifested, that he had any feeling or anycare about the matter. Once, indeed, when a fly came to the door toconvey Harcourt to the railway, and he saw from the window of his roomthe happy school-boy jumping with glee into the vehicle, and heard himsay to Mr. Barton, "Oh yes, Sir, I shall be met!" he turned to Fred whosate by him and said, "No one is expecting _me_, no one in the wholeworld is thinking of me now, Parker."

Fred told his mother of this speech, a speech so full of bitter truththat it made Mrs. Parker, kind creature as she was, shed tears, and sheasked her husband if young White could not be removed to pass theChristmas holidays with them. The distance was not great, and they couldborrow Mr. Darford's carriage, and perhaps it might do him good. Mr.Parker agreed, and the removal was effected.

For some days it seemed doubtful whether the change would be either forpoor White's mental happiness or bodily improvement. The exertion, andthe motion and excitement together, wrought powerfully on his nervousframe, and he was more distressed, and irritable than ever. He could notsleep, he ate scarcely any thing, he rarely spoke, and more than onceMrs. Parker regretted that the proposal had been made. In vain Edithbrought him plants from the little greenhouse, fine camellias, pots ofsnow-drops, and lovely anemones. They seemed rather to awaken painfulthan pleasing remembrances and associations, and once even when he hadlain long looking at a white camellia he burst into tears. It is a greattrial of temper, a great test of the sincerity of our purpose, when themeans we use to please and gratify seem to have just the contraryeffect. In the sick room especially, where kind acts, and gentle words,and patient forbearance are so constantly demanded, it is difficult torefrain from expressions of disappointment when all our endeavours fail;when those we wish to please and comfort, obstinately refuse to bepleased and comforted. Often did Fred and Edith hold counsel as to whatwould give Joe pleasure, but he was as reserved and gloomy as ever, andhis heart seemed inaccessible to kindness and affection. Besides, therewere continual subjects of annoyance which they could scarcely prevent,with all the forethought and care in the world.

The boys were very thoughtful, for boys; Mrs. Parker had it is truewarned them not to talk of their out-of-door pleasures and amusementsto or before Joe, and they were generally careful; but sometimes theywould, in the gladness of their young hearts, break out into praises ofthe fine walk they had just had on the cliff, or the glorious skating onthe pond, of the beauty of the pony, and of undiscovered walks and ridesin the neighbourhood. Once, in particular, Emilie, who was spending theafternoon with the Parkers, was struck with the expression of agony thatarose to Joe's face from a very trifling circumstance. They were alltalking with some young companion of what they would be when they grewup, and one of them appealing to Joe, he quickly said, "oh, a sailor--Icare for nobody at home and nobody cares for me, so I shall go to sea."

"To sea!" the boy repeated in wonder.

"And why not?" said Joe, petulantly, "where's the great wonder of that?"

There was a silence all through the little party; no one seemed willingto remind the poor lad of that which he, for a moment, seemed toforget--his helpless crippled state. It was only Emilie who noticed hislook of hopelessness; she sat near him and heard his stifled sigh, andoh, how her heart ached for the poor lad!

This conversation and some remarks that the boy made, led Mr. and Mrs.Parker seriously to think that he entertained hopes of recovery, andthey were of opinion that it would be kinder to undeceive him, than toallow him to hope for that which could never he. Mr. Parker began totalk to him about it one day, very kindly, after an examination of hisback, when White said, abruptly, "I don't doubt you are very skilful.Sir, and all that, but I should like to see some other doctor. I havemoney enough to pay his fee, and uncle said I was to have no expensespared in getting me the best advice. Sir J. ---- comes here at Christmas,I know, to see his father, and I should like to see him and consult him,Sir, may I?" Mr. Parker of course could make no objection, and a day wasfixed for the consultation. It was a very unsatisfactory one and at oncecrushed all Joe's hopes. The result was communicated to him as gentlyand kindly as possible.

Mrs. Parker was a mother, and her sympathy for poor Joe was more lastingthan that of the younger branches of the family. She went to him on theSunday evening following the physician's visit to tell him the wholetruth, and she often said afterwards how she dreaded the task. Joe layon the sofa before the dining room window, watching the blue sea sit adistance, and thinking with all the ardour of youthful longing of thetime when his back should be well, and he should be a voyager in one ofthose beautiful ships. He should have no regrets, and no friends toregret him; then he groaned at the pain and inconvenience and privationof his present state, and panted for restoration. Mrs. Parker enteredand eat down by him.

"Is Sir J. C---- gone, Ma'am?"

"Yes, he has been gone some minutes."

"What does he say?" asked the lad earnestly. "He said very little to me,nothing indeed, only all that fudge I am always hearing--'rest,patience,' and so on."

"He thinks it a very serious case, my dear; he says that the recumbentposture is very important."

"But for how long, Ma'am? I would lie twelve months patiently enough ifI hoped then to be allowed to walk about, and to be able to do as otherboys do."

"Sir J. C---- thinks, Joe, that you never will recover. I am grieved totell you so, but it is the truth, and we think it best you should knowit. Your spine is so injured that it is impossible you should everrecover; but you may have many enjoyments, though not able to be activelike other boys. You must keep up your spirits; it is the will of Godand you must submit."

Poor Mrs. Parker having disburdened her mind of a great load, andperformed her dreaded task, left the room, telling her husband that theboy bore it very well, indeed, he did not seem to feel it much. The bellbeing already out for church, she called the young people to accompanyher thither, leaving one maid-servant and the errand boy at home, andpoor Joe to meditate on his newly-acquired information that he would bea cripple for life. Edith looked in and asked softly, "shall I stay?"but the "No" was so very decided, and so very stern that she did notrepeat the question, so they all went off together, a cheerful familyparty.

The errand boy betook himself to a chair in the kitchen, where he wassoon sound asleep, and the maid-servant to the back gate to gossip witha sailor; so Joe was left alone with a hand-bell on the table, plenty ofbooks if he liked to read them, and as far as outward comforts wentwith nothing to complain of. "And here I am a cripple for life,"ejaculated the poor fellow, when the sound of their voices died away andthe bell ceased; "and, oh, may that life be a short one! I wish, oh, Iwish, I were dead! who would care to hear this? no one--I wish from myheart I were dead;" and here the boy sobbed till his poor weak frame wasconvulsed with agony, and he felt as if his heart (for he had a heart)would break.

In his wretchedness he longed for affection, he longed for some one whowould really care for him, "but _no one_ cares for me," groaned the lad,"no one, and I wish I might die to night." Ah, Joe, may God change you_very_ much before he grants that wish! After he had sobbed a while, hebegan to think more calmly, but his thoughts were thoughts of revengeand hatred. "_John_ has been the cause of it all." Then he thoughtagain, "they may well make all this fuss over me, when their son causedall my misery; let them do what they will they will never make it up tome, but they only tolerate me I can see, I know I am in the way; theydon't ask me here because they care for me, not they, it's only out ofpity;" and here, rolling his head from side to side, sobbed and criedafresh. "What would I give for some one to love me, for some one to waiton me because they loved me! but here I am to lie all my life, ahelpless, hopeless, cripple; oh dear! oh dear! my heart _will_ break.Those horrid bells! will they never have done?"

* * * * *

At the very moment when poor Joe was thinking that no one on earth caredfor him, that not a heart was the sadder for his sorrow, a kind heartnot far off was feeling very much for him. "I shall not go to churchto-night, aunt Agnes," said Emilie Schomberg, "I shall go and hear whatSir J.C.'s opinion of poor Joe White is. I cannot get that poor fellowout of my mind."

"No, poor boy, it is a sad case," said aunt Agnes, "but why it shouldkeep you from church, my dear, I don't see. _I_ shall go."

So they trotted off, Emilie promising to leave aunt Agnes safe at thechurch door, where she met the Parkers just about to enter. "Oh Emilie,"said little Edith, "poor Joe! we have had Sir J.C.'s opinion, and it isquite as had if not worse than papa's, there is so much disease andsuch great injury done. He is all alone, Emilie, do go and sit withhim."

"It is just what I wish to do, dear, but do you think he will let me?"

"Yes, oh yes, try at least," said Edith, and they parted.

When Emilie rang at the bell Joe was in the midst of his sorrow, butthinking it might only be a summons for Mr. Parker, he did not take muchnotice of it until the door opened and the preaching German lady, as hecalled Emilie, entered the room. When she saw his swollen eyes andflushed face, she wished that she had not intruded, but she went franklyup to him, and began talking as indifferently as possible, to give himtime to recover himself, said how very cold it was, stirred the fireinto a cheerful blaze, and then relapsed into silence. The silence wasbroken at times by heavy sighs, however--they were from poor Joe. Emilienow went to the piano, and in her clear voice sang softly that beautifulanthem, "I will arise and go to my Father." It was not the first timethat Joe had shown something like emotion at the sound of music; now itsoftened and composed him. "I should like to hear that again," he said,in a voice so unlike his own that Emilie was surprised.

She sang it and some others that she thought he would like, and thensaid, "I hope I have not tired you, but I am afraid you are in pain."

"I am," said Joe, in his old gruff uncivil voice, "in great pain."

"Can I do any thing for you?" asked Emilie, modestly.

"No _nothing_, nothing can be done! I shall have to lie on my back aslong as I live, and never walk or stand or do any thing like otherboys--but I hope I shan't live long, that's all."

Emilie did not attempt to persuade him that it would not be as bad as hethought--that he would adapt himself to his situation, and in time growreconciled to it. She knew that his mind was in no state to receive suchconsolation, that it rather needed full and entire sympathy, and thisshe could and did most sincerely offer. "I am _very_ sorry for you," shesaid quietly, "_very_ sorry," and she approached a little nearer to hiscouch, and looked at him so compassionately that Joe believed her.

"Don't you think that fellow John ought to be ashamed of himself, and Idon't believe he ever thinks of it," said Joe, recurring to his oldfeeling of revenge and hatred.

"Perhaps he thinks of it more than you imagine," said Emilie, "but don'tfancy that no one cares about you, that is the way to be very unhappy."

"It is _true_," said Joe, sadly.

"God cares for you," however, replied Emily softly.

"Oh, if I could think that, it would be a comfort," Miss Schomberg, "andI do need comfort; I do, I do indeed, groaned the boy."

Emilie's tears fell fast. No words of sympathy however touching, noadvice however wise and good, no act however kind could have melted Joeas the tears of that true-hearted girl. He felt confidence in theirsincerity, but that any one should feel for _him_, should shed tears forhim, was so new, so softening an idea, that he was subdued. Not anotherword passed on the subject. Emilie returned to the piano, and soon hadthe joy of seeing Joe in a tranquil sleep; she shaded the lamp that itmight not awake him, covered his poor cold feet with her warm tartan,and with a soft touch lifted the thick hair from his burning forehead,and stood looking at him with such intense interest, suck earnestprayerful benevolence, that it might have been an angel visit to thatpoor sufferer's pillow, so soothing was it in its influence. He halfopened his eyes, saw that look, felt that touch, and tears stole downhis cheeks; tears not of anger, nor discontent, but of something likegratitude that after all _one_ person in the world cared for him. Hissleep was short, and when he awoke, he said abruptly to Emilie, "I wantto feel less angry against John," Miss Schomberg, "but I don't know how.It was such a cruel trick, such a cowardly trick, and I cannot forgivehim."

"I don't want to preach," said Emily, smiling, "but perhaps if you wouldread a little in this book you would find help in the very difficultduty of forgiving men their trespasses."

"Ah, the Bible, but I find that dull reading; it always makes me lowspirited, I always associate it with lectures from uncle and Mr. Barton.When I did wrong I was plied up with texts."

Emilie did not know what answer to make to this speech. At last shesaid, "Do you remember the account of the Saviour's crucifixion, how,when in agony worse than yours, he said, 'Father forgive them.' May Iread it to you?"

He did not object, and Emilie read that history which has softened manyhearts as hard as Joe's. He made but little remark as Emilie closed thebook, nor did she add to that which she had been reading by any comment,but; bidding him a kind good night, went to meet Aunt Agnes at thechurch door, and conduct her safely home.

There is a turning point in most persons' lives, either for good orevil. Joe White was able long afterwards to recall that miserable Sundayevening, with its storm of agitation and revenge, and then its lull ofpeace and love. He who said, "Peace, be still," to the tempestuousocean, spoke those words to Joe's troubled spirit, and the boy waswilling to listen and to learn. Would a long lecture on the sinfulnessand impropriety of his revengeful and hardened state have had the sameeffect on Joe, as Emilie's hopeful, gentle, almost silent sympathy? Wethink not. "I would try and make him lovable," so said and so actedEmilie Schomberg, and for that effort had the orphan cause to thank herthrough time and eternity.

Joe was not of an open communicative turn, he was accustomed to keephis feelings and thoughts very much to himself, and he therefore did nottell either Fred or Edith of his conversation with Emilie, but when theycame to bid him good night, he spoke softly to them, and when John cameto his couch he did not offer one finger and turn away his face, as hehad been in the habit of doing, but said, "Good night," freely, almostkindly.

The work went on slowly but surely, still he held back forgiveness toJohn, and while he did this, he could not be happy, he could not himselffeel that he was forgiven. "I do forgive him, at least I wish him noill, Miss Schomberg," he said in one of his conversations with Emilie."I don't suppose I need be very fond of him. Am I required to be that?"

"What does the Bible say, Joe? 'If thine enemy hunger feed him, if hethirst give him drink.' '_I_ say unto you,' Christ says, '_Love_ yourenemies.' He does not say don't hate them, he means _Love_ them. Do youthink you have more to forgive John than Jesus had to forgive those whohung him on the cross?"

"It seems to me, Miss Schomberg, so different that example is far aboveme. I cannot be like Him you know."

"Yet Joe there have been instances of persons who have followed hisexample in their way and degree, and who have been taught by Him, andhelped by Him to forgive their fellow-creatures."

"But it is not in human nature to do it, I know, at least is not inmine."

"But try and settle it in your mind, Joe, that John did not mean toinjure you, that had he had the least idea that you would fall he wouldnever have tempted you to climb. If you look upon it as accidental onyour part, and thoughtlessness on his, it will feel easier to forgivehim perhaps, and I am sure you may. You are quite wrong in supposingthat John does not think of it. He told Edith only yesterday that henever could forgive himself for tempting you to climb, and that he didnot wonder at your cold and distant way to him. Poor fellow! it wouldmake him much happier if you would treat him as though you forgave him,which you cannot do unless you _from your heart_ forgive him."

CHAPTER TWELFTH.

THE CHRISTMAS TREE.

The conversation last recorded, between Emilie and Joe, took place a fewdays before Christmas. Every one noticed that Joe was more silent andthoughtful than usual, but he was not so morose; he received the littleattentions of his friend more gratefully, and was especially fond ofhaving Emilie talk to him, sing to him, or read to him. Emilie and heraunt were spending a few days at the Parkers' house, and it seemed toadd very much to Joe's comfort. This Emilie was like a spirit of peacepervading the whole family. She was so sure to win Edith to obey hermamma, to stop John if he went a little too far in his jokes with hissister, to do sundry little services for Mrs. Parker, and to makeherself such an agreeable companion to Emma, and Caroline, that they allagreed they wished that they had her always with them. Edith confessedto Emilie one day that she thought Emma and Caroline wonderfullyimproved, and as to her mamma, how very seldom she was cross now.

"We are very apt to think other persons in fault when we ourselves arecross and irritable, this may have been the case here, Edith, may itnot?"

"Well! perhaps so, but I am sure I am much happier than I was, Emilie."

"'_Great peace_ have they that love God's law,' my dear, 'and nothingshall offend them.' What a gospel of peace it is Edith, is it not?"

The great work in hand, just now, was the Christmas tree. TheseChristmas trees are becoming very common in our English homes, and theidea, like many more beautiful, bright, domestic thoughts, is borrowedfrom the Germans. You may be sure that Emilie and aunt Agnes were quiteup to the preparations for this Christmas tree, and so much the morewelcome were they as Christmas guests.

"I have plenty of money," said Joe, "but I don't know, somehow, whatsort of present to make, Miss Schomberg, yet I think I might pay forall the wax lights and ornaments, and the filagree work you talk of."

"A capital thought," said Emilie, and she took his purse, promising tolay out what was needful to the best advantage. Joe helped Emilie andthe Miss Parkers very efficiently as he lay "useless," he said, but theythought otherwise, and gave him many little jobs of pasting, gumming,etc. It was a beautiful tree, I assure you; but Joe had a great deal ofmysterious talk with Emilie, apart from the rest, which, however, wemust not divulge until Christmas eve. A little box came from London onthe morning of the day, directed to Joe. Edith was very curious to knowits contents; so was Fred, so was John; Emilie only smiled.

"Joe, won't you unpack that box now, to gratify us all?" said Mr.Parker, as Joe put the box on one side, nodded to Emilie, and began hisbreakfast. No, Joe could not oblige him. Evening came at last, and theChristmas tree was found to bear rich fruit. From many a littlesparkling pendant branch hung offerings for Joe; poor Joe, who thoughtno one in the world cared for him. He lay on his reclining chair lookinghappier and brighter than usual, but as the gifts poured into his lap,gifts so evidently the offspring of tenderness and affection, sonumerous, and so adapted to his condition, his countenance assumed amore serious and thoughtful cast. Every cue gave him something. There isno recounting the useful and pretty, if not costly, articles that Joebecame possessor of. A beautiful tartan wrapper for his feet, from Mrs.Parker; a reading desk and book from Mr. Parker; a microscope from Johnand Fred; a telescope from Emilie and Edith; some beautiful knittedsocks from aunt Agnes; a pair of Edith and Fred's very best canaries.

When his gifts were arranged on his new table, a beautifully made table,ordered for him by Mr. Parker, and exactly adapted to his prostratecondition, and Joe saw every one's looks directed towards him lovingly,and finally received a lovely white camellia blossom from Edith's hand,he turned his face aside upon the sofa pillow and buried it in hishands. What could be the matter with him? asked Mrs. Parker, tenderly.Had any one said any thing to wound or vex him? "Oh no! no! no!" Whatwas it then? was he overcome with the heat of the room? "No, oh no!"but might he be wheeled into the dining room, he asked? Mr. Parkerconsented, of course, but aunt Agnes was sure he was ill. "Take him somesalvolatile, Emilie, at once."

"No aunt," said Emilie, "he will be better without that, he is onlyovercome."

"And is not that just the very thing I was saying, Emilie, child, givehim some camphor julep then; camphor julep is a very reviving thingdoctor! Mr. Parker, won't you give him something to revive him."

"I think," said Emilie, who understood his emotion and guessed itscause, "I think he will be better alone. His spirits are weak, owing toillness, I would not disturb him."

"Come," said Mrs. Parker, "let us look at the tree, its treasures arenot half exhausted." Wonderful to say, although Joe had given his purseto Emilie for the adornment of the tree, there still were presents forevery one from him; and what was yet more surprising to those who knewthat Joe had not naturally much delicacy of feeling or muchconsideration for others, each present was exactly the thing that eachperson liked and wished for. But John was the most astonished with hisshare; it was a beautiful case of mathematical instruments, such a caseas all L---- and all the county of Hampshire together could not produce;a case which Joe had bought for himself in London, and on which hegreatly prided himself. John had seen and admired it, and Joe gave thisprized, cherished case to John--his enemy John. "It must be intended foryou Fred," said John, after a minute's consideration; "but no, here ismy name on it."

Margaret, at this moment, brought in a little note from Joe for John,who, when he had read it, coloured and said, "Papa, perhaps you willread it aloud, I cannot."

It was as follows:--

DEAR JOHN,

I have been, as you must have seen, very unhappy and very cross since my accident; I have had my heart filled with thoughts of malice and revenge, and to _you_. I have not felt as though I could forgive you, and I have often told Emilie and Edith this; but they have not known how wickedly I have felt to you, nor how much I now need to ask your forgiveness for thoughts which, in my helpless state, were as bad as actions. Often, as I saw you run out in the snow to slide or skate, I have wished (don't hate me for it) that you might fall and break your leg or your arm, that you might know a little of what I suffered. Thank God, all that is passed away, and I now do not write so much to say I forgive you, for I believe from my heart you only meant to tease me a little, not to hurt me, but to ask you to pardon me for thoughts far worse and more evil than your thoughtless mischief to me. Will you all believe me, too, when I say that I would not take my past, lonely, miserable feelings back again, to be the healthiest, most active boy on earth. Emilie has been a good friend to me, may God bless her, and bless you all for your patience and kindness to.

JOS. WHITE.

Pray do not ask me to come back to you to night, I cannot indeed. I am not unhappy, but since my illness my spirits are weak, and I can bear very little; your kindness has been too much.

J.W.

The contents of the little box were now displayed. It was the onlycostly present on that Christmas tree, full as it was, and rich in love.The present was a little silver inkstand, with a dove in the centre,bearing not an olive branch, but a little scroll in its beak, with thesewords, which Emilie had suggested, and being a favourite German proverbof hers. I will give it in her own language, in which by the bye it wasengraved. She had written the letter containing the order for the plateto a fellow-countryman of hers, in London, and had forgotten to specifythat the motto must be in English; but never mind, she translated it forthem, and I will translate it for you. "Friede ernaehrt, unfriedeverzehrt." "In peace we bloom, in discord we consume." The inkstand wasfor Mr. and Mrs. Parker, and the slip of paper said it was from theirgrateful friend, Joe White. That was the secret. Emilie had kept itwell; they rather laughed at her for not translating the motto, but nomatter, she had taught them all a German phrase by the mistake.

Where was she gone? she had slipped away from the merry party, and wasby Joe's couch. Joe's heart was very full, full with the newly-awakenedsense that he loved and that he was loved; full of earnest resolves tobecome less selfish, less thankless, less irritable. He knew his lotnow, knew all that lay before him, the privations, the restrictions, theweakness, and the sufferings. He knew that he could never hope again toshare in the many joys of boyhood and youth; that he must lay aside hiscricket ball, his hoop, his kite, in short all his active amusements,and consign himself to the couch through the winter, spring, summer,autumn, and winter again. He felt this very bitterly; and when all thegifts were lavished upon him, he thought, "Oh, for my health andstrength again, and I would gladly give up _all_ these gifts, nay, Iwould joyfully be a beggar." But when he was alone, in the view of all Ihave written and more, he felt that he could forgive John, that in shorthe must ask John to forgive him, and this conviction came not suddenlyand by chance, but as the result of honest sober consideration, of hisown sincere communings with conscience.

Still he felt very desolate, still he could scarcely believe in Emilie'sassurance, "You may have God for your friend," and something of this hetold Miss Schomberg, when she came to sit by him for awhile. She had butlittle faith in her own eloquence, we have said, and she felt now morethan ever how dangerous it would be to deceive him, so she did not lullhim into false peace, but she soothed him with the promise of Him wholoves us not because of our worthiness, but who has compassion on us outof his free mercy. Herein is love indeed, thought poor Joe, and hemeditated long upon it, so long that his heart began to feel somethingof its power, and he sank to sleep that night happier and calmer than hehad ever slept before, wondering in his last conscious moments that Godshould love _him_.

Poor Joel he had much to struggle with; for if indulgence andover-weening affection ruin their thousands, neglect and heartlessnessruin tens of thousands. The heart not used to exercise the affection,becomes as it were paralyzed, and so he found it. He could not love ashe ought, he could not be grateful as he knew he ought to be, and hefound himself continually receiving acts of kindness, as matters ofcourse, and without suitable feeling of kindness and gratitude inreturn; but the more he knew of himself the more he felt of his ownunworthiness, the more gratefully he acknowledged and appreciated thelove of others to him. The ungrateful are always proud. The humble,those who know how undeserving they are, are always grateful.

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

THE NEW HOME.

Let us pass by twelve months, and see how the law of kindness is workingthen. Mrs. Parker is certainly happier, less troubled than she was twoyears ago; Edith is a better and more dutiful child, and the sisters arefar more sociable with her than formerly. The dove of peace has taken upits abode in the Parker family. How is it in High Street? Emilie andaunt Agnes are not there, but Miss Webster is still going on with herstraw bonnet trade and her lodging letting, and she is really as goodtempered as we can expect of a person whose temper has been bad so verylong, and who has for so many years been accustomed to view her fellowcreatures suspiciously and unkindly.

But Emilie is gone, and are you not curious to know where? I will tellyou; she is gone back to Germany--she and her aunt Agnes are both goneto Frankfort to live. The fact is, that Emilie is married. She wasengaged to a young Professor of languages, at the very time when theChristmas tree was raised last year in Mr. Parker's drawing room. Heformed one of the party, indeed, and, but that I am such a very bad handat describing love affairs, I might have mentioned it then; besides,this is not a _love story_ exactly, though there is a great deal about_love_ in it.

Lewes Franks had come over to England with letters of recommendationfrom one or two respectable English families at Frankfort, and wasanxious to return with two or three English pupils, and commence aschool in that town. His name was well known to Mr. Parker, who gladlypromised to consign his two sons, John and Fred to his care, butrecommended young Franks to get married. This Franks was not loth to dowhen he saw Emilie Schomberg, and after rather a short courtship, andquite a matter of fact one, they married and went over to Germany,accompanied by John, Fred, and Joe White. Mr. Barton, after the sadaccident in the plantation, had so little relish for school keeping,that he very gladly resigned his pupils to young Franks, who, if he hadlittle experience in tuition, was admirably qualified to train the youngby a natural gentleness and kindness of disposition, and sincere andstedfast christian principle.

Edith longed to accompany them, but that was not to be thought of, andso she consoled herself by writing long letters to Emilie, whichcontained plenty of L---- news. I will transcribe one for you.

The following was dated a few months after the departure of the party,not the first though, you may be sure.

L----, Dec, 18-- DEAREST EMILIE,

I am thinking so much of you to-night that I must write to tell you so. I wish letters only cost one penny to Frankfort, and I would write to you every day. I want so to know how you are spending your Christmas at Frankfort. We shall have no Christmas tree this year. We all agreed that it would be a melancholy attempt at mirth now you are gone, and dear Fred and John and poor Joe. I fancy you will have one though, and oh, I wish I was with you to see it, but mamma is often very poorly now, and likes me to be with her, and I know I am in the right place, so I won't wish to be elsewhere. Papa is very much from home now, he has so many patients at a distance, and sometimes he takes me long rides with him, which is a great pleasure. One of his patients is just dead, you will be sorry to hear who I mean--Poor old Joe Murray! He took cold in November, going out with his Life Boat, one very stormy night, to a ship in distress off L---- sands, the wind and rain were very violent, and he was too long in his wet clothes, but he saved with his own arm two of the crew; two boys about the age of his own poor Bob. Every one says it was a noble act; they were just ready to sink, and the boat in another moment would have gone off without them. His own life was in great danger, but be said he remembered your, or rather the Saviour's, "Golden Rule," and could not hesitate. Think of remembering that in a November storm in the raging sea! He plunged in and dragged first one and then another into the boat. These boys were brothers, and it was their first voyage. They told Joe that they had gone to sea out of opposition to their father, who contradicted their desires in every thing, but that now they had had quite enough of it, and should return; but I must not tell you all their story, or my letter will he too long. Joe, as I told you, caught cold, and though he was kindly nursed and Sarah waited on him beautifully, he got worse and worse. I often went to see him, and he was very fond of my reading in the Bible to him; but one day last week he was taken with inflammation of the chest, and died in a few hours. Papa says he might have lived years, but for that cold, he was such a healthy man. I feel very sorry he is gone.

I can't help crying when I think of it, for I remember he was very useful to me that May evening when we were primrose gathering. Do you recollect that evening, Emilie? Ah, I have much to thank you for. What a selfish, wilful, irritable girl I was! So I am now at times, my evil thoughts and feelings cling so close to me, and I have no longer you, dear Emilie, to warn and to encourage me, but I have Jesus still. He Is a good Friend to me, a better even than you have been.

I owe you a great deal Emilie; you taught me to love, you showed me the sin of temper, and the beauty of peace and love. I go and see Miss Webster sometimes, as you wish; she is getting very much more sociable than she was, and does not give quite such short answers. She often speaks of you, and says you were a good friend to her; that is a great deal for her to say, is it not? How happy you must be to have every one love you! I am glad to say that Fred's canaries are well, but they don't _agree_ at all times. There is no teaching canaries to love one another, so all I can do is to separate the fighters; but I love those birds, I love them for Fred's sake, and I love them for the remembrances they awaken of our first days of peace and union.

My love to Joe, poor Joe! Do write and tell me how he goes on, does he walk at all? Ever dear Emilie,

Your affectionate

EDITH.

There were letters to John and Fred in the same packet, and I think youwill like to hear one of Fred's to his sister, giving an account of theChristmas festivities at Frankfort.

DEAR EDITH,

I am very busy to-day, but I must give you a few lines to tell you how delighted your letters made us. We are very happy here, but _home_ is the place after all, and it is one of our good Master's most constant themes. He is always talking to us about home, and encouraging us to talk of and think of it. Emilie seems like a sister to us, and she enters into all our feelings as well us you could do yourself.

Well, you will want to know something about our Christmas doings at school. They have been glorious I can tell you--such a Christmas tree! Such a lot of presents in our _shoes_ on Christmas morning; such dinings and suppings, and musical parties! You must know every one sings here, the servants go singing about the house like nightingales, or sweeter than nightingales to my mind, like our dear "Kanarien Vogel."

You ask for Joe, he is very patient, and kind and good to us all, he and John are capital friends; and oh, Edith, it would do your heart good to see how John devotes himself to the poor fellow. He waits upon him like a servant, but it is all _love_ service. Joe can scarcely bear him out of his sight. Herr Franks was asked the other day, by a gentleman who came to sup with us, if they were brothers. John watches all Joe's looks, and is so careful that nothing may be said to wound him, or to remind him of his great affliction more than needs be. It was a beautiful sight on New Year's Eve to see Joe's boxes that he has carved. He has become very clever at that work, and there was an article of his carving for every one, but the best was for Emilie, and she _deserted_ it. Oh, how he loves Emilie! If he is beginning to feel in one of his old cross moods, he says that Emilie's face, or Emilie's voice disperses it all, and well it may; Emilie has sweetened sourer tempers than Joe White's.

But now comes a sorrowful part of my letter. Joe is very unwell, he has a cough, (he was never strong you know,) and the doctor says he is very much afraid his lungs are diseased. He certainly gets thinner and weaker, and he said to me to-day what I must tell you. He spoke of his longings to travel (to go to Australia was always his fancy.) "And now, Fred," he said, "I never think of going _there_, I am thinking of a longer journey _still_." "A longer journey, Joe!" I said, "Well, you have got the travelling mania on you yet, I see." He looked so sad, that I said, "What do you mean Joe?" He replied, "Fred, I think nothing of journeys and voyages in this world now. I am thinking of a pilgrimage to the land where all our wandering's will have an end. I longed, oh Fred, you know how I longed to go to foreign lands, but I long now as I never longed before to go to _Heaven_." I begged him not to talk of dying, but he said it did not make him low spirited. Emilie and he talked of it often. Ah Edith! that boy is more fit for heaven than any of us who a year or two ago thought him scarcely fit to be our companion, but as Emilie said the other day, God often causes the very afflictions that he sends to become his choicest mercies. So it has been with poor White, I am sure. I find I have nearly filled my letter about Joe, but we all think a great deal of him. Don't you remember Emilie's saying, "I would try to make him lovable." He is lovable now, I assure you.

I am sorry our canaries quarrel, but that is no fault of yours. We have only two school-fellows at present, but Herr Franks does not wish for a large school; he says he likes to be always with us, and to be our companion, which if there were more of us he could not so well manage. We have one trouble, and that is in the temper of this newly arrived German boy, but we are going to try and make him lovable. He is a good way off it _yet_.

I must leave John to tell you about the many things I have forgotten, and I will write soon. We have a cat here whom we call _Muff_, after your old pet. Her name often reminds me of your sacrifice for me. Ah! my dear little sister, you heaped coals of fire on my head that day. Truly you were not overcome of evil, you overcame evil with good. Dear love to all at home. Your ever affectionate brother,

FRED PARKER.

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

THE LAST.

"Hush, dears! hush!" said a gentle voice, pointing to a shaded window."He is asleep now, and we must have the window open for air this sultryevening. I would not rake that bed to-night, John, I think."

"It is _his_ garden, Emilie."

"Yes, I know"--and she sighed.--

"It _is_ his garden, and his eye always sees the least weed and theleast untidiness. He will be sure to notice it when he is drawn outto-morrow."

"John there may be no to-morrow for Joe, he is altered very much to-day,and it is evident to me he is sinking fast. He won't come down again, Ithink."

"May I go and sit by him, Emilie?" said the boy, quietly gathering uphis tools and preparing to leave his employment.

"Yes, but be very still."

It was a striking contrast; that fine, florid, healthy boy, whose framewas gaining vigour and manliness daily, whose blight eye had scarcelyever been dimmed by illness or pain, and that pale, deformed, wearysleeper. So Emilie thought as she took her seat by the open window andwatched them both. The roses and the carnations that John had brought tohis friend were quietly laid on the table as he caught the first glimpseof the dying boy. There was that in the action which convinced Emiliethat John was aware of his friend's state and they quietly sat down towatch him. The stars came out one by one, the dew was falling, the birdswere all hurrying home, children were asleep in their happy beds; manyglad voices mingled by open casements and social supper tables, some fewlingered out of doors to enjoy the beauties of that quiet August night,the last on earth of one, at least, of God's creatures. They watched on.

"I have been asleep, Emilie, a beautiful sleep, I was dreaming of mymother; I awoke, and it was you. John, _you_ there too! Good, patient,watchful John. Leave me a moment, quite alone with John, will you,Emilie? Moments are a great deal to me now."

The friends were left alone, their talk was of death and eternity, onthe solemn realities of which one of them was about to enter, andcarefully as John had shielded Joe, tenderly as he had watched over himhitherto, he must now leave him to pass the stream alone--yet not alone.

Emilie soon returned; it was to see him die. It was not much that hecould say, and much was not needed. The agony of breathing those lastbreaths was very great. He had lived long near to God, and in the darkvalley his Saviour was still near to him. He was at peace--at peace inthe dying conflict; it was only death now with whom he had to contend.Being justified by faith, he had peace with God through the Lord JesusChrist. His last words were whispered in the ear of that good eldersister, our true-hearted, loving Emilie. "Bless you, dear Emilie, God_will_ bless you, for 'Blessed are the peacemakers.'"

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